A LESSON ABOUT FAME FROM SOUL SURVIVORS : THE FACTS.

Byline: Reed Johnson Daily News Staff Writer

The Scott brothers have watched so many of them come and go, so many chewed up and spit out by the Machine.

First came the doo-woppers. Then the Motown knockoffs. Then an endless conga line of Soul Train wanna-bes, one-hit funk bands and long-forgotten disco divas.

Nor has the scenario changed much. Today the music industry is littered with homeboys who once thought they were God's gift to hip-hop, now bagging groceries or folding burritos in South Central.

The Scott brothers sadly shake their identical heads.

``We've been here 30 years, and we've literally seen groups that are young enough to be our kids, and they're has-beens,'' says Walter Scott, 53, sitting in the fifth-floor Encino office suite he shares with twin sibling Wallace ``Scotty'' Scott and their manager, Michael Gardner. ``That's how cruel this business can be.''

Indeed, pop music is a savage messiah that blesses only a fortunate few. The Scott brothers - better known as founding members of the rock-steady r&b quintet the Whispers - feel lucky to be in that number.

Which is why they're treating a new musical based on their lives and careers both as a celebration and as a cautionary parable of sorts.

Opening an eight-performance run tonight at the Wiltern Theatre, ``Thank God! The Beat Goes On'' tracks the Scotts' long odyssey from their doo-wopping days at Watts' Jordan High School to their three-decades-and-counting reign as consummate soul survivors. Featuring both old hits and a dozen new soul-gospel songs, the show attempts to make plain how the Whispers endured while flashier acts fizzled.

From the group's first single, ``It Only Hurts for Awhile,'' on the L.A.-based Dore label, to insanely catchy '80s dance tracks like ``And the Beat Goes On'' and ``It's a Love Thing,'' the Whispers have calmly stuck to a repertoire of smoothly harmonized r&b-funk, while rivals switched musical styles as often as if they were trying out new-model Cadillacs.

Born in Fort Worth, Texas, the twins moved with their parents to Los Angeles in 1959 and came of age in the Jordan Downs projects off 103rd Street. Though both now live in the Valley, they still revisit their old neighborhood, an area since ravaged by crime and drug trafficking.

``When I look at today and how we were brought up, it's two different worlds,'' says Scotty Scott.

The show's tragic counterpoint to this Horatio Alger tale is provided by the real-life character of former soul queen Phyllis Hyman. A longtime friend and professional associate of the group, Hyman committed suicide in July 1995, just hours before she was scheduled to perform at a Whispers farewell concert in Harlem.

Overweight, clinically depressed and on the wrong side of 45, Hyman was finally consumed by the pressures of a business known for devouring its offspring. Her suicide note read simply, ``I'm tired.''

By contrasting Hyman's painful career with the industry's airbrushed image, the brothers hope the show will transmit a warning, especially to star-struck teen-agers.

``I think we all go through (the pressures),'' Scotty says softly, ``but she (Hyman) wasn't strong enough, in my mind, to deal with it the way other people might've dealt with it.''

Judging by its plot synopsis, the show follows a dramatic arc similar to that of many other ``gospel musicals,'' a curious genre that mixes images of sin and salvation, evangelical instruction with broad comic relief.

Set at the legendary Apollo Theatre, the action takes place in the hours leading up to Hyman's suicide and deals with the Whispers' anguished decision as to whether the show will go on. In between, the twins revisit their past via flashbacks and banter with a lively backstage crowd that includes funkmeister Sly Stone and a loopy transvestite named Contasha von Fauxtenberg.

The brothers, making their professional acting debut, play themselves, backed by original Whisper Nicholas Caldwell and Leaveil Degree, who joined the group in 1971.

Actress-singer Alyson Williams, a friend of Hyman's who replaced her in that fateful farewell tour and now plays her on stage, knows how hot and cold a singer's career can be. The daughter of the late jazz trumpeter and bandleader Bobby Booker, Williams had been training for a show-biz career for nearly 30 years before breaking through with her 1989 debut album, ``Raw.''

Williams thinks that producers and promoters stop caring about singers once their sales begin to slip.

``They basically help them to self-destruct,'' she says.

Yet she refuses to portray her friend as a victim.

``It was all her own doing,'' Williams says. ``That decision was coming on for many years.''

In retrospect, the brothers agree that Hyman had been sending out distress signals, though she hid her anxieties behind a boisterous, often abrasive personality.

Though admitting the show may prompt charges of exploitation, the Scotts aren't worried. Hyman's family saw a recent performance in Philadelphia and gave their blessing, the brothers say.

But that doesn't mean the twins' consciences are silent.

Walter Scott still remembers a comment Hyman made about a year before her death, following a post-rehearsal lunch at L.A.'s Greek Theatre.

``She said, `Y'all got this world. I'm outta here.' ''

Scott pauses, weighing the words.

``Why didn't I take it more seriously? It messes with me to this day. Not that I thought I could have done anything. ...''

What: ``Thank God! The Beat Goes On.''

Where: Wiltern Theatre, 3790 Wilshire Blvd., Los Angeles.

When: Eight performances: 8 p.m. Tuesday through Friday, 3 and 8 p.m. Saturday, 3 and 7:30 p.m. Sunday.

Tickets: $22 to $35.

Information: Call [phone].

CAPTION(S):

Photo

Photo: Wallace ``Scotty'' Scott, left, Alyson Williams, and Walter Scott tell a gospel-inflected story about the highs and lows of the music business in ``Thank God! The Beat Goes On'' at the Wiltern Theatre.